Adam Baker - Impact

He drowsed, slowed his breathing, kept still as he could. A tear of sweat ran from his bandaged scalp, down his temple into beard stubble. He ignored it.

Cruising at the edge of sleep. Each time his head nodded forwards he heard phantom engine alerts, stall warnings. He smelled smoke, the sulphurous stink of shorting fuse banks. He felt the judder and shake of the plane shaking itself apart.

He jerked awake and grabbed the yoke.

Frost lay on the deck of the lower cabin.

She tried to think her way cooler.

She opened her mouth wide and exhaled, visualising each breath as a rippling jet of expelled body heat. Sweltering discomfort purged from her lungs leaving her cool and rested.

She let her imagination transport her from the desert.

The Sierras.

Kayaking down a wooded valley. A double-blade paddle. Gentle oar splash, left and right. Ponderosa pines on either bank. Trout darting beneath the boat. Osprey wheeling in the sky. Each bend in the river, each serpentine twist, revealed fresh scenes of verdant wilderness to explore.

She opened her eyes and sat up.

She needed a piss.

Frost crouched, flight suit unzipped, pistol in her hand.

Urine splashed and frothed in the dust. Almost instant evaporation. Dark, wet sand dried pristine white in seconds.

A person dead-set on survival would, she supposed, store urine. Squat over a mess tin then decant liquid into a bottle. But no matter what happened she couldn’t put a stale, part-fermented bottle of piss to her lips and drink. Rather eat a bullet than let herself be dehumanised by the futile struggle to survive an extra couple hours.

She stood and zipped her suit.

Cruel heat baked the plane metal, baked the sand.

She and Hancock would run out of water in a few days. They would lie in the shattered aircraft wracked by fierce kidney pain and shivering chills, visited by dead friends, relatives, lovers. A bunch of wailing, leering apparitions spitting accusations and reproach. The madness would last for a couple of hours. Then, without being aware, they would slide into a merciful coma and death.

Maybe, once she had shaken the last drops of water from her canteen, she should take a walk among the dunes to speed her demise. Kick off her boots, shrug off the warrior carapace of flight suit and equipment yoke, and walk naked into the sun.

She stepped out of shadow into merciless light, flinched as searing radiation hit her face.

She climbed a high ridge, shielded her eyes with her Beretta and surveyed the terrain for any sign of Noble. She wanted to see a 4x4 heading her way, lurching over dunes. A SUV kicking up a dust plume. Hum of a distant engine. Glint of sunlight on glass and chromium trim.

Nothing.

The distant horizon merged with rippling fata morganas that shimmered silver-wet like distant ocean.

They rebuilt the barricade and climbed to the flight deck.

They sat opposite sides of the cabin, backs to the wall.

Hancock: the improvised bandaged wrapped round his head was stained with pus and blood. Stubble turning to beard.

Frost: crazy, sand-dusted hair, peeling skin, cracked lips.

‘Long fucking day,’ said Hancock.

Frost nodded.

Her eye was drawn to the trauma kit. A clear bag of saline protruded from a zippered pouch. The liquid sparkled as it refracted sunlight, like the surface of a lake inviting her to dive and swim. Tempted to pierce the bag with the tip of her knife and suck on it like a tit, guzzle salted water until the bag crumpled dry. She blinked to dispel the reverie.

‘Looks like we’re fucked,’ said Hancock. ‘Noble should have reached the target site by now. If there were serviceable vehicles to be found, he would be back already.’

Frost ignored him. Hancock seemed to revel in their predicament, seemed anxious to discuss every catastrophic possibility. She just wanted to rest.

‘How’s your head?’ she asked. The side of Hancock’s face was dark and swollen. She could smell rot. He didn’t seem to be infected by the virus. He was succumbing to septicaemia. They needed to make it to a pharmacy, find some antibiotics. ‘Want me to take a look at that wound?’

‘Can’t see the use.’

They sat a while.

‘So how long do you intend to wait?’ asked Hancock.

‘For Noble? A while yet. He’s got a long way to walk. Lot of rough ground. Might take him a few days. Can’t give up on the guy just yet.’

‘How much water has he got?’

‘Some.’

‘And if he doesn’t show up? What then? Given any thought?’

‘Walk.’

‘What the use?’ asked Hancock. ‘You’re lame. Those fucks hiding in the dunes would attack before you got a mile from here.’

‘Maybe.’

‘They’ll be back for sure, once the sun goes down.’

‘And we’ll be waiting.’

Hancock shifted position, tried to get comfortable.

‘We still got a mission,’ he said. ‘We still got something to achieve.’

‘Don’t start with that shit.’

‘We could make it to the target. You and me. Cover each other’s back. We could hold off those fuckers long enough to deliver the bomb.’

‘This whole kamikaze deal is turning into some kind of freakin’ monomania. You’re fucked up. You fall on your ass every couple of steps. You aren’t going anywhere. Let it go.’

‘I’m still AC. Remember that.’

‘Come on. Chain-of-command doesn’t mean a thing out here. The badge on your sleeve isn’t worth a damn. You’re like some shipwrecked guy on a desert island, driven mad by solitude. Crowns himself emperor of all he surveys. Sits on his bamboo throne, all regal and ragged. Lord of the Coconuts. King of the Crabs. I mean look around you, Jim. Aircraft Commander? There’s no aircraft to command. Just a pile of half-buried scrap.’

‘How do you want to die, Frost? That’s the only latitude we got left. We get to choose. A luxury most folks didn’t have these past months. Think back. Took a lot of guts to get those wings, right? A lot of sweat. The Academy. The graduation salute. LaNitra Frost. Officer of the United States Air Force. Flew these birds for Uncle Sam, and proud of it. Used to mean something. So why not put on war paint one last time? There’s a battle to be fought.’

‘No there isn’t. Remember those Japanese soldiers that hid in the jungle for decades because they didn’t know Hirohito surrendered? That’s us, right now, marooned, fighting a lost fucking cause.’

‘I still believe in you,’ said Hancock. ‘That’s the tragedy. I can see the officer you used to be. Wish I could hold up a mirror, make you understand.’

He drew his pistol, chambered and cocked. He pointed the weapon at Frost’s head, aimed with his one remaining eye.

They stared each other down. Hancock’s unblinking gaze lining the front and rear sights.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ said Frost.

‘Take out your side arm. Do it slow.’

She thought about it, tried to get the measure of the man’s resolve.

He let her see his finger whiten on the trigger.

She pinched the butt of her pistol between thumb and forefinger, and lifted it clear of the holster.

‘Eject the clip.’

She slid the magazine across the deck towards him.

‘And the gun.’

She span it across the floor.

‘Good. Now give me the authorisation code.’

Noble clambered across the rockface. He worked north, shuffled ledge to ledge. His arms burned with fatigue. His fingers cramped.

A low sun threw long shadows, turned the crags and boulders rich caramel. He could already see the moon in a darkening sky. A minor boon in a string of catastrophes: at least he would have good visibility tonight.